


the heart is a muscle for pumping blood

by Eva



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Asexual Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras isn't comfortable with Grantaire's feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the heart is a muscle for pumping blood

***

“What a waste,” Grantaire commented, his eyes flickering over Enjolras’ body.

“I agree,” Enjolras said sharply, “and yet you do not put the bottle down.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and took another swig of his wine, even as Enjolras turned away.  Over the sound of their friends laughing and talking freely, he could hear the bottle thump to the table once more.

The hand on his shoulder was very warm, almost fever-warm, and Enjolras suppressed a shudder.  “You, your passion,” Grantaire slurred into his ear, and the sickly scent of wine was all around them, creating a separate social sphere: in the middle of the crowded cafe, they stood apart, Enjolras’ skin buzzing at each point of contact.  “Wasted on France.”  Grantaire’s lips were soft and wet, moving against the ridge of his ear.  “She can’t return the investment.”

Enjolras turned again, quick enough that he felt the pull when Grantaire sucked the air between them into his mouth in surprise.  “So you say,” he whispered, glaring into Grantaire’s wide, dark eyes, taking advantage of the man’s instinctive retreat to make his own.

***

“Good morning, Fearless Leader!” Courfeyrac called out, and jogged across the road to walk with Enjolras. He was laughing breathlessly, waving back at a woman who watched him with some consternation. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Explain to me why you ask that every morning,” Enjolras snapped.

Courfeyrac’s grin grew brighter. “I await the day you can answer yes.”

An officer of the law, patrolling across the way, stared at them suspiciously. They were becoming aware of the rising tide of unrest, Enjolras thought, sluggish though they were. 

“You’ll hardly be able to lift a flag if you don’t sleep, much less a weapon.”

“A flag is a weapon,” Enjolras said flatly, and they turned onto the next street, leaving the suspicious officer behind them. 

“I suppose if you use it as a bludgeon--”

“What is a nation without a flag?” Enjolras interrupted, rubbing at his forehead as a sudden sharp spike of pain shot across it, somewhere underneath the bone. Irritating. “A nation is an idea, and that idea must be solidified in a symbol if more than one man is to dedicate himself to it.”

“And to bludgeon a man with a pole is less potent than to bludgeon him with an idea.” Courfeyrac moved ahead to grab the door of the Cafe Musain. “You have been musing overmuch with Combeferre. Let me direct you to sit with Feuilly and Bahorel this morning, to ground your mind again.”

Quite a few of their friends were there already, refreshed from the rather light-hearted gathering last night and ready to consider their role in the revolution once more. Enjolras’ breath came easier at seeing this; he trusted Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but there were times that trust was tested. Certainly it was tested every time they demanded a potential meeting be turned into a ridiculous orgy of drinking and singing. But now, even Grantaire appeared sober and quiet.

“I didn’t expect to see you awake so early,” Courfeyrac teased him.

Grantaire’s answer was made in a pleasant and easy tone. “Your mother pouted quite prettily, but the call of justice lured me away.”

A repeat of last night, then, Enjolras thought sourly, as laughter rose up to fill the cafe. He winced at another bolt of pain, nearer his temple.

“But to business, before we earn another glare,” Grantaire said, holding out a bit of bread to Courfeyrac. “Let me buy your forgiveness.”

“Sold,” Courfeyrac said grandly, snatching the bread away.

***

Enjolras was seldom aware of Grantaire’s stare; it happened so often that it almost felt natural. His eyes were ever bright; his ears ever ready to catch on some word or phrase that he could decouple from the solemn and hitch to the ridiculous.

A sceptic, Enjolras decided, was useful in teaching a speaker to take care. In every other respect, he was a worthless companion.

“And yet you do not tell him to leave,” Combeferre noted. They were sitting in a small room upstairs, away from the noise and merriment that was the midday meal in the cafe. Those who had money bought enough that those who didn’t could share without feeling they were dipping too far into a friend’s purse alone. Enjolras approved of the arrangement, distantly. Citizens should take care of citizens, after all.

He hadn’t felt well enough to eat, and even now refused to drink. 

“France needs every willing man,” Enjolras said.

“Then he has more value than you initially gave him,” Combeferre said, with some satisfaction. 

“I don’t understand what makes him willing, though. He has no love for country; he has no love for God. He certainly disdains enough of his fellow men--”

“He does not disdain Enjolras.”

It was a ringing sort of silence, made up of noises that didn’t penetrate the ear. Enjolras stared steadily at Combeferre, allowing the severity of his gaze to be his weapon. At last, Combeferre looked down, though there was no apology in the movement.

“Let him find faith where he will,” Combeferre advised, returning to his meal. He held out a bit of bread to Enjolras, who shook his head and turned to stare out the window. “There are greater men than R who have found their nobility in admiration for another.”

“Ridiculous,” Enjolras snapped, and stood quickly. He felt dizzy, momentarily, but it cleared. “If he admires me, he would seek my approval. He knows he can’t find that in his cups.”

Combeferre shook his head and sighed. “If France wished to be free, her king would recognize it and abdicate the throne. Don’t make man out to be so simple.”

“I am so simple,” Enjolras challenged.

“Then refuse him,” Combeferre challenged in turn.

***

He had other things to think about. Things that were far more important: the production and storage of ammunition, the stockpiling of weapons. Collating reports on the conditions and temperaments of the people on the streets. 

But Courfeyrac, who had consulted with Combeferre shortly after lunch, was crowing.

“So you didn’t know! I thought you didn’t. Bossuet called me a fool. What cares Enjolras for such matters, I said. Hearts are muscles for pumping blood to him. And the only heat in his eyes is for the Republic!”

“Shut up,” Enjolras growled, rubbing at his temples. His headache was worse, and throbbed with his pulse. His throat felt raw.

“So you are at last presented with a choice,” Courfeyrac concluded triumphantly, grabbing a chair and dragging it over to Enjolras’s table, where he was trying to hide behind a map of Paris. Courfeyrac cared nothing for that, and prodded stubbornly at Enjolras’ hand. “I shall put this in the clearest terms for you, my friend. R loves you.”

Enjolras slammed the map down on the table. “And what does that mean to the revolution?”

Courfeyrac stared at him, mouth slightly open.

“I don’t understand what the point of--of this, is,” Enjolras continued, his voice rough and choked in his effort to control the urge to scream in frustration. “There are more important things at stake--”

“Which doesn’t mean these littler things don’t matter,” Courfeyrac said.

“They don’t!” Enjolras cried out, slapping his palm on the table again. “Am I the only person with sense in this entire society?”

Courfeyrac was silent for a long moment, staring thoughtfully at the far wall. “Perhaps you are. Perhaps you have surplus of sense, stored where the rest of us have soft emotion.”

If he hadn’t said it so matter-of-factly, Enjolras would have winced. As it was, he sighed and tried to construct an apology, moving to stand up.

And nearly fell to the floor.

***

“Joly!”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras insisted, pushing Courfeyrac’s arm away. But he was weak, and Courfeyrac kept him seated on the floor easily.

“Combeferre! Someone go and fetch Joly!” 

“It’s nothing,” Enjolras said again, aware through the faint buzzing in his ears that he sounded peevish rather than angry or confident. “I didn’t sleep, and I haven’t eaten. A bit of rest and bread--”

“You did this to yourself?” Courfeyrac demanded, and bit off a curse. “Of course you did. Isn’t anyone down there? Hello!”

“I can walk,” Enjolras said even as footsteps sounded on the stairs outside the door. A moment later, Grantaire was in the room, his eyes widening at whatever he saw in Enjolras’ face.

“Isn’t Joly here?” Courfeyrac demanded. “This idiot collapsed because he has neither eaten nor slept.”

“Joly isn’t here,” Grantaire said, shaking himself. His words were a bit slow; he had been drinking, Enjolras realized with a helpless sort of anger.

“I’ll be fine after I eat something and sleep,” he said again, shaking Courfeyrac off. “If you do manage to find Joly and wish to send him to look at me, I will be in my rooms.”

“You won’t get there on your own,” Courfeyrac said darkly, standing up and holding out his hand to Enjolras, who glared at it. “I’ll--”

“I can help you home.”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac both turned to look at Grantaire, who flushed under their joint scrutiny. “What? I’m perfectly capable. And then Courfeyrac will be able to search for Joly.”

“Why can’t you search for Joly?” Courfeyrac demanded, but Enjolras nodded at Grantaire, whose color only intensified.

“Courfeyrac.” Enjolras spoke his name quietly, and Courfeyrac looked down at him again, frustration making his mouth tight. “Go and find Joly.”

Courfeyrac stared at him, and then knelt suddenly. “This is a poor time to have any sort of conversation with him,” he whispered harshly, indicating Grantaire with an expressive movement of his eyebrows.

“Go and find Joly,” Enjolras repeated, his voice louder and his words slower. Courfeyrac glowered at him but stood.

“Feed him,” he snapped at Grantaire, sending one more glare down at Enjolras before he left.

“Shall I feed you, then?” Grantaire said in the heavy silence, and the lilt, the innuendo in his tone, sounded strange, somewhat hollow.

Enjolras stood on shaky legs, and was grateful that Grantaire made no move to help him. “That won’t be necessary,” he muttered, grabbing a small chunk of bread left on Combeferre’s plate, which he hadn’t taken downstairs with him. It was already become hard, but he chewed it stoically, looking around for something to drink to help his dry throat choke it down it.

Grantaire moved closer at last, and wordlessly held out his glass. Wine, Enjolras realized, the smell of it making the dizziness rise for a moment.

***

His home wasn’t far, and Grantaire was obliged to help him stand steadily only once during the journey.

Enjolras’ room was simple and bare; he dragged himself to the bed and lay down, his head suddenly too heavy for his neck. He heard Grantaire moving about and managed to say, through the thick fog descending on him, “You should go.”

“Should I?” Grantaire asked, and there was a sound--he was looking through Enjolras’ books.

“The heart is a muscle for pumping blood,” Enjolras said, the words heavy on his teeth. It was too obscure, he realized suddenly, and sighed. “There’s nothing for you here.”

The silence was so complete that he thought himself alone, and drifted. When he awoke, startled into sitting up in the near dark, he saw Grantaire sitting on a chair near the door, watching him.

“I can offer you nothing,” he said, his tone harsher than he meant. It was still sore from lack of water.

Grantaire, lost mostly to shadow, shrugged. It was a distinctly melancholy movement. “This is enough.”

His head was still awhirl. “That doesn’t seem right,” Enjolras mused, laying down again. Caught by the pattern of shadow on his ceiling, he lost his train of thought until Grantaire spoke again.

“Right or wrong, Joly thought someone ought to stay with you. It... it pleases me to stay.”

“I can offer you nothing,” Enjolras muttered again, but sleep was drawing him back. “You shouldn’t stay.”

“To stay is enough,” Grantaire admitted, the words falling like stones from his mouth.

***


End file.
